Wet Nails by Shira Glassman: Book Review

Wet Nails by Shira Glassman is an erotic short ghost story. It opens with Adina Greenberg watching an old movie featuring her favourite actress, Rose Hamilton. When she pauses the movie, Adina is shocked to see Rose come out of the TV and is delighted when the actress gives her a manicure and the night of her life.

The Characters

Adina is a grad student, too busy working on her research and dissertation to have a relationship. She has dermatillomania, a compulsive skin picking disorder, which is portrayed realistically and non-judgmentally. It’s what leads Rose to teach Adina how to do her own manicures (as a way to kick the habit) and I particularly liked that she wasn’t afraid or ashamed to talk about it.

Adina is equally unafraid of admitting her attraction to Rose, as well as her attraction to one of Rose’s male costars. This kicks off a frank and interesting discussion about how bisexuality was handled by actors during Hollywood’s Golden Age. Watching Rose relish in her sexual encounter with Adina is satisfying because we know how hidden she had to keep her same sex flings when she was alive.

The Writing Style

I’ve only read some of Shira Glassman’s sweeter stories that have no sex, so Wet Nails was a pleasant surprise. It’s interesting, paced well, and the sex is pretty hot.

The Pros

Everything worked for me.

The Cons

Not a thing.

The Conclusion

If you’re looking for a short erotic read that’s a little different from the norm, I recommend picking up Wet Nails. It’s a fast read at a great price and well worth it.

Excerpt from Wet Nails by Shira Glassman

“Hello?”

Rose Hamilton’s smile broadened, and I crumpled into the sofa clutching my hands in astonishment. My mouth hung open like a broken glove compartment.

“May I join you?” My God, that voice. Her alto sounded like thick honey dissolving into a hot cup of tea.

“Yeah, sure!” Suddenly, I was glad I was freshly showered and wearing the nice pajamas. That was the crush talking. The crush I’d had since I was six. Oh my God.

She reached out toward me. “Can you give me a hand?”

I walked toward the television and placed my fingers against the glass. To my amazement, her hand, warm and firm, grasped mine. And then, right out of the set, stepped the golden-age goddess herself, curvy and gorgeous, and still in black-and-white.